The video below may be the strangest thing I’ve seen since Jackie Gleason tripping on acid. It purports to be a 1963 Bicycle Safety Film but I think it’s really a perverse look into a post-apocalyptic world where apes evolved from men (and learned to ride bikes). These apes then allowed their offspring to roam the land in packs. Callous, sad offspring at that – the kind of kids who don’t even bother to stop when one of their own is horribly killed right in front of their eyes! Seriously, if this were a Bicycle Safety Film, why did the filmmakers fail to mention the cardinal rule of Scwhinn safety – don’t ride a bike while wearing a freaking monkey mask?!

I think the most amazing thing about this video isn’t the fact that, as a child, I broke every single one of these rules and was only slightly killed (true story) but that it reminds me of this most awesome video: A CHIMPANZEE RIDING ON A SEGWAY! Woo hoo! Look at him go!

Wow, Quizlings! You never cease to amaze. This week’s game was the highest-scoring, closest game ever at Tomato Jake’s Wednesday Night Trivia! The lowest score was 57 and all but two teams tied with at least one other. Some amazing statistics there, no matter how you slice it.

Along the way, we talked about how fast we can go in the Tar Heel State, how close is the nearest NHL team and exactly what the plural of mantis is (hint: it’s not manti). Plus, there was this villainous Vulpes:

Now check out the rankings for the week and see how your team stacked up against the rest… (more…)

Am I the only one who was bothered that Paul Simon kinda half-assed it with his song 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover? Great song – a #1 hit in 1975 – but at best it’s a prime example of singer-songwriter slacking; at worst, it’s false advertising and fraud.

I mean, look: it’s supposed to be 50 ways to leave your lover. But how many does Simon give us? A half dozen or so, really, at the most, depending on how you define “leave.” There’s You just slip out the back, Jack and Hop on the bus, Gus – that’s two ways to leave your lover, granted. But what about Make a new plan, Stan and Just drop off the key, Lee, and get yourself free – are these actual ways to leave your lover or just actions one might take if considering to leave or having already left a lover? And what the hell does You don’t need to be coy, Roy even mean? That’s not a way to leave, it’s an instruction to stop being an indecisive dweeb and make up your freakin’ mind!

So, honestly, even accepting these lame attempts at defining ways to leave your lover, we’ve got five ways to leave your lover. Five! Anyone besides me see a serious disparity here? Five is considerably less than fifty. And that’s an unreasonable stretch that can’t be attributed to pure exaggeration or hyperbole. It’s like Paul Simon wrote a song called 5 Ways To Leave Your Lover and the label said, “No, make it bigger! More than five! How about 50?! 50 Ways To Leave Your Lover!” “But, I only wrote five ways.” “Who cares? Nobody’ll notice.” Well, I did! I do! I noticed!

Paul Simon, you owe me 45 more ways to leave your lover! And you’re about 40+ years overdue.

Why: I’m assuming this dude didn’t just open it on a whim. He probably went to business school or worked as a manager some place where he learned his trade and I think it’s safe to assume he did some research and got a small business loan or some investors. So what business model does he choose? A proven franchise? A novel tried and true retail outlet with a local flavor? No. The nichiest of specialty boutiques, a gourmet popcorn store. Does he think people wake up every day and say to themselves, “Hey – I could really go for a bag of cotton candy flavored kettle corn. Let’s head to the mall!” or something stupid like that? Hell no – gourmet popcorn is an impulse purchase at best and this joker has decided to put all his economic eggs in one weak-assed gimmicky basket. He might as well call the store “Gone In 90 Days!”

How I justify it: He’s just taking up space that could be a Sanrio or a Halloween Express or something useful. Don’t waste my time – or my mall space!

When I was a kid, I had a dog named Ringo. He was an older dog and I was really young – about three or four – when Ringo became ill and had to be put to sleep. Of course, my idiot parents didn’t want to tell me that, so they made up a story. No, not the “he went to live on a farm” one. I was told that Ringo had been taken to the vet but he had escaped from his cage and run out into the road and then been hit by a car. I have no idea how any adult could think that was the better white lie for a preschooler, but that’s the family in which I was raised.

As ads go, it was pretty straightforward. Slightly sexy, but classy. Very upscale.

I caught sight of it in a local newspaper, sandwiched somewhere in between the want ads and the movie listings. About eight column inches all told – an ad for a fine clothier or furniture store, something of that nature. It showed a lovely female dressed seductively in a nice lacy slip or camisole lay demurely on a richly upholstered divan, maybe a day bed. She held in her arms a Siamese cat to which she seemed to be talking sweetly (no doubt a beloved pet). She wasn’t tarty or sleazy, no far from it – she was portrayed as a beautiful young woman with great taste, the perfect model, the perfect target audience identifier, sure to garner a few new clients for the upscale shop.

Point is, there’s this major league hottie in her underthings lounging on a sofa and what is the first thing I say upon seeing the ad?